


The Noir Hero

by orphan_account



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Bad Science, Durins get your shit together, Everyone is broken in some way, F/F, F/M, I should not, Illness, M/M, Really why, Thorin as a Hero, Thorin get your shit together, bagginshield, but i am, seriously what is this, superhero au, why
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-20 19:16:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3661824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oakenshield graces the cover of every news outlet. The mutation of a man, with strength that is hardly possible. </p><p>Thorin is dying. His family is shattered. And he can save the world, but he can't save them. </p><p>Bilbo is just a fan, until he isn't. </p><p>TL;DR The Superhero AU that nobody asked for, but they'll get it anyways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I SHOULD BE STUDYING FOR EXAMS. NOT WRITING THIS. ALSO I DON'T EVEN KNOW. THORIN. 
> 
> Also, upon rereading. What are tenses. I don't know. Fuck grammar. Just. ALSO SCIENCE. YES THAT. PRETEND. 
> 
> Catch me on tumblr I guess. http://potofsunshine.tumblr.com/. I TAKE REQUESTS I SUPPOSE.

There are perks to working in the best school in the district. The rich and famous alike rather enjoy spending money on their children’s education, so the salary is phenomenal. Enough that Bilbo can relax and not worry for the next few years to come. And it’s flattering that Principal Lorien had thought so highly of him that she'd personally requested he join. He suspects Gandalf put in a good word, but he’ll take what he has nonetheless. The pay is good, and the students are welcoming and he rather enjoys teaching more than he expected he would. 

History of Middle Earth is a boring topic, typically. But Bilbo Baggins has found that he’s got a rather good knack at making people think about the past with reverence, rather than mild contempt, and while he’s hardly a reporter anymore, the job makes him feel even more involved with current events. The children are utterly fond of following the news, and while he does encourage his students to keep up with current events -

“There’s a new video!” shrieks Eowyn.

He’d prefer it wasn’t on his class time.

This is why he’s been anxious about the new policy of having laptops in the classroom. Useful technology, certainly, but he can teach just as well with a good lecture, but when does Gandalf ever listen to him? And being a private school, they have to stay on top of technology. And here he is, the mild, polite history teacher in argyle that can’t possibly keep the students interest as they clamor around young Eowyn, greedily staring at the screen with a sense of admiration that all young teenagers have nowadays.

Curse Oakenshield, and his ability to turn Bilbo’s class against him. Whiteboard marker is set down, because Oakenshield is a sensation, and Bilbo Baggins stands no chance against him. Sure enough, Bilbo loses control of his classroom with a sense of helplessness, as the class crowds around her laptop, leaving their seats and he doesn’t even bother instructing them to stop, because he’s following them to Eowyn’s laptop to see the site himself.

“Man, Oakenshield,” says Gimli, with the reverence that all young boys starting high school have. A gleam in his eyes as they stare at the masked figure that’s suddenly appeared in Arda. Their first ‘superhero’.

Normally, Bilbo would try to corral the class back into paying attention, but even he can’t help but appear behind Gimli, peering over the boy’s shoulder to stare at the screen. A superhero, after all, doesn’t appear everyday. And he can’t find it in himself to make the students turn the video off. The History of Middle Earth has always been around, and Oakenshield is clearly determined to make some of it himself.

They watch the dark-haired, sturdy man grappling with a cybernetic robot, out of control the media women is stating, and Bilbo recognizes Dis Durinson-Li, standing in front of the fight and he worries, because surely someone should have told Dis that it’s too dangerous to be that close to ORCs without any sort of weapon? He remembers now, why he left the reporting career for teaching. There was only so many trips a man could make into the eye of the storm, and he has more than just himself to think about, these days.

He does miss it, however.

Wind whips around Dis’ lustrous, dark curls, blowing into her face but she’s standing, which is more than can be said about the rest of the little town of Ered Luin. Just two hours away from Arda Academy for the Gifted. Bilbo’s eyes dart to the window, wondering if the threat will lead back to them, eventually. It's something all of Middle Earth has to think about, as the usual criminal organizations get what seems to be technological advantages that nobody had dreamed of. Technology, it's evolving too quickly for Bilbo to wrap his head around.

 _“Oakenshield arrived on scene twenty minutes ago,”_ cites Dis, eyes turning to the fight. Poor behaviour for a reporter who should be facing a camera, but Bilbo can hardly fault her, as the class goes eerily still to zoom in on the work, _“The O.R.C’s that went out of control claimed two lives already, but Oakenshield rescued one little girl and her mother, and went straight to work. Zoom in, Bifur!”_

The cameraman zooms in, and the students are staring, eagerly as Oakenshield moves, punching ORCs with a force that is utterly inhuman. His first battle, of sorts, with AZOG, one of the first ORC bots to appear in Arda, had left people speechless.

Protected against most typical weapons, AZOG had torn apart most of the North. Nobody knew how Mordor fared any longer. It was a ghost town, really. And the ORC bots just kept coming and coming. Those days, there had been no hope, and Bilbo distinctly remembered clinging to his family, curled up in Took Hall and wondering if it was aliens, like the books always said, or just some megalomaniac scientist. The arguments and debates were fierce, and everyone in Hobbiton was afraid.

And then he came, out of nowhere it seemed. The news came later, but the mystery man defended himself by lifting an entire Oak Tree.

Superhuman Strength.

Tough as the Party Tree in Hobbiton, he barrelled through AZOG and cut off the ORC bot’s arm.

Oakenshield, he’d been dubbed. An epithet that had nothing to do with his powers, but it stuck.

Dark hair, long and pulled back into a braid, with smaller braids decorating his face like a Dwarven Warrior of old, and really, whoever designed his costume must have gone for such an aesthetic. Detail right down to the Khuzdul inscriptions, that even Bilbo can't read, but someone out there should be able to. Oakenshield's muscular, certainly, but how much is from his costume, built like armour, mechanical and rather robotic in representation, with an ancient sword hilt now equipped with laser technology. ORCrist, and Bilbo was flushed to admit that he had the article about how Oakenshield earned the hilt after helping a pack of refugees from the Museum to Rivendell Hospital after attack from the Troll Gang, a gang that had gotten quieter since Oakenshield had arrived on scene. Bilbo will always claim it's for Frodo, that he keeps the article, but it really isn't 

It's a stunning image, the blue lazer blade of ORCrist combined with Oakenshield's dark, mechanical armour, slicing through fire like some sort of dark knight. It's a good way to wake up to morning breakfast, that's all. 

Even now, in the grainy picture of the zoomed in camera, as wind swirled around him and the rogue ORC bots attacked, Oakenshield’s sword sliced through the ORC bots, fluttering this way and that. Strength behind every slice, every cut. And when the sword was less than effective, a fist of steel, throwing ORC bots backwards and pummelling them into the ground - he's fascinating. 

The fight ended, and everyone leaned forward eagerly, as Dis and her cameraman raced forward, clearly attempting to get an interview. But elusive as ever, he stared back, unimpressed before he was tucking his sword away.

And then he was gone.

Everyone was chatting too hard to concentrate, and Bilbo certainly didn’t mind. He left them too it as he booted up his own laptop, and on silent, re-watching the fight.

* * *

The teleportation device whirs down faster than one would expect for a prototype. It's technology that even Balin is amazed was made, and considering that Balin is the genius behind it, well, it says a lot. But necessity is the mother of invention, and Thorin could hardly keep dodging the media and the spies, attempting to figure out where his hide away was. Who the man behind the mask is. Just entirely too dangerous to get involved in that sort of thing. He's already breaking several laws just by being a vigilante, and if anyone knew the story of how he got his powers, well. 

Better to just avoid the entire situation. 

The basement to his house, once abandoned and sparse, is now filled with all sorts of technology, walls lined with lead to block any of the ORCs, now upgraded with x-ray vision. It seems they're trying to get him to enter a fight willingly. Someone is upgrading them, and the media can hem and haw about rogues, but Thorin is sure after this fight that they're not just strays from the Mordor Mechanical Company. This is something entirely different, and he doesn't know what it is, and he doesn't have all the pieces but he will, someday. And when that day comes, he'll figure something out. 

Balin is here, looking older, and tired. He sits before twelve different screens attached to one computer system, re-watching Thorin's fight on two of the screens, while the rest of him is busy staring at devices and prototypes. Because if ORC's are being upgraded, then Thorin's equipment will need to be upgraded as well. ORCrist needs to be stronger, and today's fight is proof if the ORC's managed to actually surround him and land punches that strong. On the plus side, teleportation is finally able. 

It helps, of course, that their only test subject is no longer entirely human. 

Dwalin is by his side immediately, as Thorin slumps onto the hospital style bed for Oin to work on him. The only other party of this unholy quartet, working late at night to stop crime and evil from wreaking havoc in Arda. Oin takes the x-ray and starts scanning him, another new invention. One designed to work on Thorin's rather unique new body. Thorin is not, contrary to popular belief, a superhero. He’s not some sort of figure that the media is blowing him up to be. Speculating on the mysterious Oakenshield and his do-gooder ways. He was merely a man who had been caught on the wrong end of things and now he was somewhat ruined forever. The least he could do, he supposed, was to help somewhat, before his condition no doubt killed him. 

Anything can be made from a bad alloy, his granddad used to say. It just takes a bit of thinking. 

“Dis is having a field day with her report you should know,” commented Dwalin, as Balin screened the new teleportation device as a ‘success’. Much easier to escape interviews now, and Thorin would rather avoid the media part of his new career. “She thinks Oakenshield hates her. I don’t think you can outrun her once she puts two and two together.”

“Gimli only talks about Oakenshield,” added Oin, as he went to work x-raying Thorin’s bones for dislocation. Strong as steel he may be, but his joints and nerves were not strong like his bone and skin. “Gloin is rather perturbed on the matter. Melli keeps telling him to buck up. A boy can't worship his father forever, after all.”

“You can’t keep doing this yourself,” said Dwalin finally, and Thorin glared at his long-time friend.

“We’re not discussing this again,” said Thorin firmly, stepping out of his costume, and into the clothes Balin had thoughtfully arranged for him, “What happened to me was a fortuitous accident. You, on the other hand, have no guarantee you’ll survive what happened to me, Dwalin. And we still don’t know what my condition will do to my health long-term.”

“Barely avoided a scandal as it were,” added Balin, as Dwalin’s scowl deepened, clearly uneasy at letting the man he’d been hired to protect, his cousin, go out into battle without him. And really, it was a joke these days. Thorin was perfectly capable of protecting himself, his bodyguard was merely a figure head. Something Dwalin was unable to stomach, and likely never would. “Imagine the field day the media would have if Erebor Tech Co. were at the centre of a technology scandal that nearly killed the son of the founder.”

Thorin stiffens, and the group goes still except for Oin, who bustles about Thorin with the customized x-ray. They don’t speak of the incident, not now, not ever.

"Am I fine?" Thorin asks, because the air is stiff and he can't deal with it. He was never the type to talk about his feelings, after all. 

"You'll be sore in that shoulder, the ORC's are certainly getting more strength," mutters Oin, as he slaps a paste onto Thorin. It doesn't work, and Oin can sense it doesn't work. They both look away, Thorin out of shame, Oin to make a note in his extensive notebook on Thorin's condition. 

With that, Thorin lets Dwalin hand over his clothes, and he goes from Oakenshield, to Thorin Durinson, the young heir of Erebor Engineering. Not so young, he muses into the mirror, as he brushes his long hair back. His beard is filled out still, which he supposes is a rather good thing. It will need a trim, sooner or later, but for now, he's busy peeling off the side-burns that go with his costume. Some of the facial hair he wears is ultimately fake, but it's only because he can't grow hair on will. Shame, really. The extensions he wears as Oakenshield, particularly the braids, equipped with beads packed sensory equipment and cameras for Balin to record, are removed as well. Now he just has short, thick hair that he can run his hands through. 

They left the basement, moving out from the secret entrance built to lead straight to Thorin's bedroom. The closet door opened, and perhaps it was nostalgia from childhood, but he walked through his closet and into his bedroom and down the stairs. 

Moving upstairs, the roles switched easily enough. Thorin was still the centre of the group, but it was Dwalin now, wielding weaponry, two guns and likely a dozen knives on his person. Not to mention the extensive set of piercings in his eyebrow and ear. His bald head was tattooed, digital tattoos that swirled and moved and gleamed in the light. Rather fancy, admittedly, and expensive beyond measure, but what else was Thorin supposed to do with his money, considering his father was still alive and the company was never his. May never be his, with his condition now. Dwalin moved to help him down the stairs, practically lifting him and it was embarrassing and annoying beyond measure, to be treated like an invalid. 

Then again, he technically was one. 

Balin was no longer the technology savant they all knew he was, but rather the mild mannered Personal Assistant, reciting off events that Thorin was to be seen at this week, as Oin turned from medical genius to retired full time nurse, hovering over Thorin like a bee to a flower. Buzzing around him and handing Thorin pills - nothing more than sugar, really. And Thorin, well, he was the patient. 

The weak CEO's son, diagnosed with something dastardly and incurable and barely able to walk, really, as he settled on the couch and turned the TV on, ignoring them all. It was a strange show, the four of them had settled into. Even when nobody was watching, nowadays. They could never be too careful. 

And sure enough, by dinner time, Thorin was accompanied into the dining room. Cars arrived, to meet Thorin for the weekend, settle into dinner with him. Dis and her grown, teenage boys, bounding in first. Vili was beside her, looking every bit the whipped husband, but rather pleased. Their smiles fell, however, upon seeing him, and Dis was careful as she approached her brother, touching him as though he were glass. 

"You look better," she says honestly, and he pet her hand, because he didn't have anything to say to that. Last week she'd been around after he'd inhaled smoke from a fire. Oin had nearly had his head on the matter. 

Fili and Kili are subdued, as they always are. They may be teenagers, but neither of them have been around a dying man, too young to remember the late Thror, may Mahal let him rest among the stones in peace. They both ignore him, which stings, but he has been assured it's normal coping. Nonetheless, Thorin stabs at conversation with his nephews, "How was school?" 

"Fine," replies Kili, staring at Thorin with sensitive blue eyes, reflections of Thorin's own, "I beat Tauriel in our last archery practice." 

"That's Thranduil's daughter, right? Oh excellent!" exclaimed, Thorin, delighted at the thought of the man taking blows from his family.

"Adopted daughter," adds Kili defensively, and Thorin is puzzled on what went wrong. Dis is too busy hugging Frerin as he arrives, looking harrowed. His brother is not made to run a company, and the blonde man looks tired. 

Thorin's guilt gnaws at him, like a beast he cannot escape. 

"Father won't be making it for this dinner," Frerin says, and Thorin brushes it off. Because they all know that Thrain would never come (though the why is still left unsaid), mostly because Thorin is still furious with his father, and the fury won't be tempered today. 

"How are you?" asks Thorin, as Frerin slides beside him, hand brushing over Thorin's, fear in his eyes. This is exasperating, it is. 

The meal continues, and nobody says anything as Oin serves Thorin his medication, though all Thorin wants to do is throw the pills down and stand up without Dwalin's help and show his family he's not _dying_ today. But he can't, because if they knew the real truth, they'd be in far more danger. And he can tell Dwalin no, but he's certain Fili and Kili and Frerin are impulsive enough to try to recreate his situation, or worse. If they knew what lay behind the S.M.A.U.G. research and development section, well, it's just not feasible at this point. 

Dinner ends in perfect and utter silence. Chairs scrape against the floor, and Dis hugs him, as he stands, careful to not put her weight on him. Careful to stand far, far away and he can see her excitement that he'll get better. Fili, at least, brushes his forehead against Thorin's. Kili is still taking his condition as a personal affront, and Vili apologizes profusely as he shepherds the two out of the house. 

"Can I at least see my room before I go?" Kili asks, at the door way. Frerin pauses, because he's driving the boys to the Guest House. Dis and Vili both have work, but such is the life of the news. 

"I'll take you, lad," and off Balin goes, accompanying Kili upstairs and Thorin hates, again, what this is doing to the family. 

Standing now, against the door to the Manor, Frerin lights a cigarette and takes a long drag. Thorin misses smoking, but mostly like a man misses being able to walk on his own. The ability to have control over himself. The ability to pretend to have health that he could ruin. 

"When are you going to tell me why you and father aren't speaking anymore?" Frerin asks, into the night, as they stare at the stars overlooking them and Thorin snorts, because what a typical thing of Frerin to say after a perfectly horrid dinner. 

"Ask him." 

Curt with just the right amount of undertones, hinting at Frerin to step away from this particular land mine. Pity that Frerin doesn't care.

"I have." 

Well, then it's clearly a closed matter. 

Thorin stays silent, and Frerin huffs, throwing the cigarette down and smashing it, as though it's this new barrier in the family that he's trying to destroy. 

"I will figure it out, eventually," Frerin announces into the night, "I'll figure it out and I'll fix it, even if you and father are too stubborn for that. Just, I wish you'd trust me, _undad_." 

Thorin stares at his brother's retreating back, as Kili bounds downstairs and doesn't even look at him. 

Dwalin accompanies him back into the house, and leaves him to wallow in his silent misery. 

And then, of course, because his life is such that he can't even brood in peace anymore - 

"Wargs, in the Shire!" 

Oakenshield is required again. 

* * *

 

Bilbo can't believe it, staring at the mutant wolf hybrids. He'd heard, of course, of genetic engineering, but seeing it, well, that's an entirely different matter. Frodo is scared, but he's just a child, and Bilbo has ushered the boy onto the roof, like the rest of the hobbits in Bag End Row. The Gamgees, just two houses over, have their entire brood on the roof, and he can almost make out Hamfast beating one of the Wargs with a shovel. Samwise is wrapped up in a sister's arm. Bilbo wants to curse himself, for all that he has his a hot poker that's not quite as hot anymore, and nobody to hold Frodo in case he needs to beat back the beasts. 

The attack had been swift and sudden, in the middle of the night. The scream had awoken them all, and Bilbo didn't want to think about whose funeral he was going to be planning, as he forced Frodo out the window and up the roof. Thank goodness he'd been awake, marking papers tonight. Frodo was awake when Bilbo burst upstairs into his room, and immediately climbed onto his uncle, clinging tightly as the howls increased outside their house. 

Now, on the roof, they could see the beasts, four of them, prowling the lane, howling into the air, clawing at the stone of the building. Fierce, giant grey wolves, clawing at stone, brushing against the houses, trying to climb and grab prey. Harrowing, really. Not an experience to repeat and Bilbo was already putting it down in his "never again" book. Frodo was crying now, earnest and he was too young for this, not after Prim and Drogo and really, the Hobbiton resident was just furious. 

The Rangers had come, but none of them were equipped for Wargs, and already one was dead, the rest shooting guns at the beasts and doing little harm. Nobody had ever seen a Warg, before tonight. They weren't any sort of natural creature and he was certain, somewhere, Aunt Belba Baggins was off muttering about science and how this was the reason the world was going to end. 

And then there was a shout, and Bilbo turned his head, and Oakenshield was there, ORCrist now slicing through Wargs, two dead almost immediately. Bilbo and Frodo stared in awe, which probably wasn't the best sort of thing, because they didn't even hear the shriek of their front door, facing the claws of a Warg and collapsing inwards. 

Later, Bilbo would need to worry about getting the floors redone, after the giant claws had ripped through the tiles, but for now - 

"Uncle Bilbo!" 

A Warg had followed their scents, up through Frodo's window, bursting the glass, and oh dear. 

"Get behind me," said Bilbo, heart in his throat and poker standing straight, ready to impale the Warg's snout and my were those big teeth, but Frodo stumbled backwards and Bilbo moved forwards because there was no thinking about what would happen if he didn't. 

Blue laser struck through the poker, in the Warg jaws, ready to be slashed by giant teeth. The snarls of the beast died, as blood splattered the roof of Bilbo's home, as the Warg fell backwards, and there, standing in front of him, in a mask and with armour that gleamed even in moonlight, with hair done in multiple braids and half brushed back, was the infamous Oakenshield himself. 

The blank, white of the mask stared at Bilbo, who stared back, astounded. 

"Well, thank you," said Bilbo, blustering to remember his manners as Frodo came crashing into his leg. The superhero just stared. 

"It's Oakenshield!" screeched Frodo, "Oakenshield saved us!" 

The hero bent down, ignoring Bilbo completely to look directly at Frodo, who went silent in awe. The young boy wasn't that tall, the cursed genetics of Baggins and Tooks and all the residents of Hobbiton, it seemed. But he had an array of curls and sharp blue eyes that glistened, staring at the hero. 

"You're safe now." 

And even if it was intended for Frodo, the deep, rich tones of that voice hit Bilbo all the way to his core and he stared, as relief flooded into him, and as Oakenshield rested a hand on the boy's head, and it was phenomenal, really. This entire experience. 

"Next time," said Oakenshield, turning to Bilbo now, who was struck by the sheer magnitude of what was happening, "Follow your nephew and run. You're better suited as grocer, than a fighter, Mister Baggins." 

And the awe of the moment was gone, vanished in an instinct as Bilbo flushed, embarrassed and a little offended. He'd been rather brave- hadn't he? And he could feel the judgement radiating off the man as Bilbo stood there in his flannel pyjamas, robe tied around his chest and, well, he was hardly muscular, certainly, but what on earth did Oakenshield think of him. He'd just faced a Warg down with a poker, and he'd been grateful and the man had just brushed him off and that just wasn't right at all. Especially not in front of his traumatized nephew, who was already staring at Thorin with worship written over his face. 

"Run where, precisely?" asked Bilbo, a little hotly. "Off the roof? And leave Frodo without any chance of getting away!" 

Oakenshield stared, and ignored him entirely, as he turned back to Frodo again and Bilbo was flabbergasted at the rudeness of it all, "Good day, Master Baggins." 

And he vanished in front of Bilbo's eyes, and the Professor and Uncle stared, just like Frodo did, at the empty space before them. 

In front of the camera crew, with Dis Durinson, still in their pyjamas that night, Bilbo let Frodo tell the story, and he hummed along politely before heading to the hotel putting them up for free, thank goodness. He tucked his boy into bed, and stewed in the fury of being brushed off by his supposed hero, and he took a secret smoke out on the balcony, still steaming at being treated the way he had by a man who was supposed to be setting an example for the world. 

And it was only before he slept, that the all important question came to mind. 

How had Oakenshield known his name? 


	2. The Stone Giants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo makes a friend. Not much Thorin POV
> 
> Ered Luin might be New York.

Oakenshield had known Bilbo's name. 

This was fact, and nothing that anyone could do would convince Bilbo Baggins otherwise. That said, nobody was there to tell on the matter, and it was highly unnerving to have nobody to speak to about facts. For one thing, facts were the basis of being a reporter. And now he was a History teacher. Facts were the matter of discussion of his career and yet, he was silenced on the matter. Who was he tell about the strange, strange bias of Oakenshield? He didn't really know. 

Frodo, on the other hand, had plenty to speak about. Samwise and Merry and Pippin had all been invited to their hotel room, where Frodo had, in unnecessary detail, reenacted the entire scene for his friends. Merry and Pippin were so astonished they'd fallen off the bed in excitement. Bilbo had apologized dearly to their parents, of course, but the parents were far too busy asking him about Oakenshield to care about their sons bumped heads. Apparently it was regular occurrence anyways, but Oakenshield was not. Bilbo would never understand the motivations of his Took cousins, nor the Brandybuck folly. Strange devils, the lot of them. (Never mind that a week ago he'd have been of the same mind-set). 

But knowing that Oakenshield knew his name in no way changed anything. There were just too many people Bilbo met, from parents of students, to cousins, to people he'd met as a reporter. Not to mention that almost the entirety of Hobbiton knew each other in some capacity. The variables, it seemed, were completely out of order and stacked entirely against him. Shame. 

So Bilbo set the mystery aside, because he was an uncle and a teacher and he had far too many young minds looking to him as an example, and ordered from one of the best toy-makers in Ered Luin a custom designed action figure for Frodo's birthday. His birthday as well, in fact. Just around the corner of the month. Waving a goodbye to Eowyn, who was busy lording something or the other over Gimli (it was always hard to tell with girls), and got into his tiny car. A miniature little grey hybrid that was environmentally responsible and perfectly adequate for long journeys. And with one last wave to the students he recognized, and dodging young Fili as he jumped out of nowhere to grab a football, Bilbo was on his way to Ered Luin. 

And it was only half way there that he realized - 

"Bugger! I've forgotten my handkerchief!" 

* * *

Ered Luin was nothing like Bilbo Baggins had expected. For a city that had just been attacked by ORCs, of all things, the reparations were going better than he'd expected. The entire city seemed to be out and about, and the two hour drive had been entirely worth it to see a community rallying. Sometimes, mused Bilbo, people forgot about the little things. Like the survivors. Those were the people that made this entire expedition worth it, after all. Blast Oakenshield for taking away from the beauty of this. 

Knocking on the apartment door of the toymaker, Bilbo waited, arms folded, and staring out the side window into the streets of Ered Luin. He could see the News vans lining up for their report, and for a moment, he meandered a bit closer to the window. Thank goodness the toymaker lived in a corner apartment, after all. Rather lovely view.

"Baggins, yes?"

Bilbo turned, completely stunned out of his mind, it seemed, to face what was a rather strange looking man wearing a floppy hat and with a moustache that was entirely too bristled to be real. His grin was wide, however, and it was oddly charming on his face. Bilbo's heart rate came to a rather lovely halt, before resuming normal tempo. The small things, it seemed, he could still live with. Clearing his throat, he gave a small nod, and a smile, and tried to avoid scolding himself for something completely and utterly out of his control. 

"Bilbo, please," he said, straightening his waistcoat and timidly asking in return, "Bofur, yes? Bofur Ursler?"

"That'd be me!" said Bofur, giving a nod, "You're the one with the order about the Oakenshield figurines, right? Come in, come in!" 

And just like that Bilbo was ushered into the rather spacious looking loft apartment. It didn't seem the sort of place you'd expect for a toymaker, but then, he didn't truly understand how much money the toymaker must have. Quite a bit, if this loft was to go by it. Probably the Oakenshield figures.

"You're business is doing well?" asked Bilbo, because it was a terribly sad state that he couldn't avoid asking questions. 

Bofur looked up, as he went to pour them both a glass of water, and gave a wry grin. His hat knocked down before his eyes, and using his glass, he tipped it back up, that charming sort of grin never leaving his face. As though he knew something you didn't, or perhaps, saw something nobody else did. 

"You could say that," agreed the toymaker, "I live here with my cousin, Bifur. He's a camera-man for the Lorien News Agency, for Dis Durinson, actually. Not many are as suicidal as her, but then, those that are typically get paid well." 

Bilbo floundered for an appropriate response, staring at the man and flushing, as he tried to think up something suitable to say in repose. All that came out was a tiny meep, of sorts, and then he was eagerly gripping the glass of water and sipping as though a starved man. Questions, he was learning, lead to strange, undefinable answers. But he couldn't help but wonder, as he stared at Bofur, about this strange, altogether unsettling Bifur character. 

"Is that- I mean - your toys, he's giving you measurements and details?" asked Bilbo slightly, tilting his head to look up at Bofur. 

Bofur grinned, padding around the room to a cabinet, filled with various odds and ends, and many, many different, detailed versions of the Oakenshield figurine. Bilbo only got a glance, as Bofur pulled out the Oakenshield figurine, looking particularly pleased with his work. It was a stunningly descriptive thing, with sharp, tangible and smooth lines across the armour, cutting into it, and had Bilbo not seen Oakenshield several days ago, he'd have been very much convinced on the matter of this being the real thing. That said, his memory was keen, keener than Frodo's at least, and he could tell the hair too short, just a smidge, and there wasn't enough beading. Oakenshield had been far more impressive in reality than this figure. Even if this was the best in the market. 

"Bifur also edits the shots for later videos," admitted Bofur, "He fancies himself a movie-maker. Some day he may even direct something. Until then, selling prime gifs and pictures of Oakenshield, well, you can imagine the amount we get paid." 

Hand waved over the loft, and though it wasn't extremely well furnished, it was lavish, with plush rugs, retro lava lamps, a spacious, stainless steel kitchen. The walls had various figures in pop-art, the television most likely the latest one. Erebor Tech, of course. Bilbo's eyes darted along the stone walls, the stairs, recently fixed, and the couches, leather and grey, minimalist and yet not quite stylish. The entire place had been decorated into a fancy, though not quite magazine worthy, sort of thing. 

"Want to see where I work?" asked Bofur suddenly, and Bilbo looked up, surprised, but nodding. 

Water glass rested on the glass coffee table, an eclectic shape, rather like a figure eight. It hardly seemed useful, but then, who was Bilbo to comment? 

Following Bofur through one of the eclectic doors in the loft - painted red with bright pink stars across it, and Bofur's name seemingly spray-painted on in blue - Bilbo found himself amidst a rather large, spacious studio. It was filled, head to toe, with all sorts of actions figures, of different shapes, and sizes. The one that really caught his eye was a life-size copy of Oakenshield, standing in the corner and my, it was imposing. Bilbo gawped that that, by-passing the figurines of cartoons and toys, heading straight to Oakenshield's giant statue. 

Tad bigger than Oakenshield in person, and far too wide, the shoulder blades entirely wrong. But the scale, well, it was phenomenal. 

"Who's buying this?" asked Bilbo, stunned a bit, into silence. 

Bofur had moved to draw the blinds, letting light into the room, pouring over the corners, and illuminating the large, well depicted, rather beautiful carving of Oakenshield. Bilbo turned, the view startling him just as much as Oakenshield's imposing presence. It was the city-line, though it had been over taken by cranes and construction, building along the edges of the city, creeping upwards, skywards. Dangerous, imposing looking things, like stone giants, taking over the countryside. 

"It used to be a better view," admitted Bofur, "You could see the sky, from this part, then the ORCs came, and ravaged the entire place. Oakenshield, well, he was stunning. Bifur's a huge fan. I am too, come to think of it. I'd probably have died that day, there wouldn't have been a city to recover, if he hadn't been here." 

The irritation with the hero faded, unfortunately, and Bilbo nodded, feeling a rather bit stunned at the admission. For whatever he'd done, well, Oakenshield, no matter how rude, had the lives of thousands at his feet, including Bilbo's own. Wargs, ORCs, and whatever else came. It was a slight bit of promise, that Oakenshield would protect them. And for now, Ered Luin was safe and sound. 

"The figure over there is for Oìn Durinson," said Bofur, snapping out of his flashback, grinning at the large dummy, "Said he's giving it to his nephew." 

The name itself was unfamiliar, but then, Bilbo was used to unfamiliar. Giving it a nod, he stared out into the abyss of the window, and then back at the giant action figure. He turned to Bofur, and with a small, surprising smile, said, "It's a bit off, measurement wise. I remember a few details, when he saved me- I mean - I don't want to impose - 

But he needn't have worried, because Bofur looked entirely and utterly overjoyed by the suggestion. And that was how Bilbo found himself promising to come back next weekend and help Bofur with his rather massive Oakenshield figurine. 

* * *

Thorin sighed, looking over at Frerin. Ever since his brother's unfortunately obnoxious decision to intervene on the matter of Thrain and Thorin's tattered relationship, he'd been making daily visits, which were just about as unplanned as the rest of Frerin's chaotic lifestyle. And Frerin came with a bang, arriving when nobody expected. Balin had to register three new cameras to catch Frerin sneaking in, trying to plan a surprise that could otherwise go haywire. As it were, today had been Thorin's training with Dwalin, and Frerin had nearly walked in on Thorin and Dwalin pummelling each other half to death in the unused gym. It would have ended poorly, had Frerin seen Thorin capable of such a thing. Worse still, if he had walked in on Dwalin landing that unfortunately strong upper-right hook. 

"You could at least announce yourself," grunted Thorin, glowering as his brother dove into the unfortunately large pack of sugary donuts he'd picked up on his way here. Frerin's diet was getting more and more atrocious as the seasons passed. 

Frerin grinned around sucking in a frosting-coated finger, smacking his lips with great pride and Thorin hated him for it, because Oin had refused to let Thorin's blood sugar levels rise above a certain limit without being able to test for further damages in a laboratory setting. Oin was taking far too much effort to keep Thorin alive. It was unsettling, most days. Today it was just plain limiting. First the fighting had been stopped early, and now he was being denied sugary treats. 

A year ago, life had been rather different. 

"You know I couldn't," said Frerin rather cheerfully, "Because then I'd never get to see you walking on a treadmill."

"Dwalin was helping," added Thorin, carefully, warning. Because he knew Frerin, and the blonde was practically giddy with excitement, sitting on the opposing arm chair, looking for all the world as though Christmas had come, and it was sudden, the realization, that Frerin was too young, too young to take over an entire corporation, one filled with deceit that would ruin Frerin, had he any idea what Thrain and Thror had been working on, in the past. Thorin would suffer physically for their sins, Frerin emotionally. He swallowed back the emotions, unsure if he could let Frerin face such a fate. 

Frerin looked at him, with serious, Durinson blue eyes, as he replied, "But this is more than it was, Thorin. I remember it, y'know. I mean, I was late coming from Rohan, but I saw you. Laying on the hospital bed and Oin saying you may never get up, never walk, and now you're tread-milling."

Thorin sighed, staring at Frerin with a mournful, uncertain gaze. He didn't know how to explain to Frerin what he needed to explain, and he didn't know where to begin. The recovery Oin had gradually insisted on presenting to the world, but there were things Thorin didn't know if they could be explained. 

"Frerin," said Thorin, but Frerin had a stubborn look on his face, chin jutted out and he looked like Dis, in that instant, and Thorin sighed, retreating for now. 

The TV came on, and Thorin started, only to find Balin with the remote, cheerfully breaking up the emotional moment with a "The movie Frerin likes is on!" and he began to flip channels. 

They stopped, however, at the news. 

Dis was on the scene again, and both brothers swelled at the site of their sister, until they saw the smoke. 

"She's heading somewhere dangerous," said Frerin, eyes wide and he was leaning forward, as Thorin's blood chilled and Balin looked horrified, remote dropping. They hadn't picked up the signal yet, the news had only just reached them. Why hadn't they picked the signal up yet? 

 _"Reporting from the site of Ered Luin,"_ stated Dis into the microphone, steading herself on the machine as it zoomed past her, straight into the field as cranes, giant stone grey cranes, clearly marked with the Erebor Tech symbol, moved together,  _"Cranes of mass proportion, used to rebuild the city, have suddenly gone haywire. With no explanation, they cranes have begun moving, crashing into buildings, taking the city apart. The very city these cranes were building. The Erebor Tech companies have been working to stop the cranes motions, but rumours are surfacing of a detailed hacking system, though none of that explains this odd behaviour. We're going to fly closer to try and survey the area."_

Frerin swallowed, staring hollowly at the screen, hands darting away from the powdered, sugary donuts, leaving them to the coffee table as he leaned back into the arm chair, staring at the damage the cranes were doing and looking horrified. Thorin felt his hands clench, as he stared and then with a sudden, dawning horror, turned back to Balin, who was looking at him with fear. Thorin couldn't leave, not with Frerin here.

Oakenshield wouldn't be able to go. 

* * *

 

Bilbo sputtered, gasping for air as the smoke filled his lungs. He'd been meeting Bofur today, and then the world had exploded, as the two of them had sat in his loft, and they'd stared, as the cranes started moving, fluttering through the air and taking steel beams, crashing into buildings. Bofur had grabbed his hand, in one minute, and then the two of them abandoned the loft workshop, running out the door. Indoors, it seemed, was not safe. Especially not this high up, as cranes moved into the air, smashing and attacking into the buildings and Bilbo had never seen such viciousness - not like this, at least. 

The entire world was raining hellfire. 

The stairs had been blocked to escape, and the elevators offline. Bofur had looked at him, grim-faced and uncertain, as he said, "Best chance is to grab a fire-escape from the roof. Building's old."

And that was how Bilbo had found himself being ushered up stairs, moving up up and up to the roof top. 

Only to find the fire escape was gone and Bofur and he staring at each other in dawning horror. 

And then the steal beam had come, and without thinking, Bilbo hadn't ducked or moved, he'd jumped, and like a ridiculous idiot, landed up holding on to it, until he fell, fell fell fell, into a smoky, dark building.

Gone. 

Buried. 

His last thought was Frodo, and if the lad would ever forgive him for leaving again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck. OKAY THE NEXT CHAPTER WILL BE SOONER. Just finished exams, sort of crying. meh. we'll see how life goes. 
> 
> I fixed grammar issues and stuff. Kind of. With this one. Thorin is dopy, Bilbo is annoyed.
> 
> The story has a vague plot outline now. I will attempt to close by Chapter 8. Or 10. No more than 10. 
> 
> THIS IS NOT A BIG THING. 
> 
> potofsunshine.tumblr.com - I hang there.


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